But I am only a human,
and these
are only words;
filled with imperfections
but also comical strifes;
and these walls in which
I reside
hold elements of my
five senses and
the ink
that is being poured
over these albino pages
with an obsidian smoke
transforming it into a lake
of quicksand
except
it is the noire
and it
is cold
and I lack the words
to express my envisioning,
so they
be just my
sad
psychotic
thoughts
being veiled by the saccharine dew of
tragedies and the maleficence of
this            book,
so
come
          along                   and
                      delve
       into                  this    sonnet
            of woe
with me,
               for I          am but  a      servant
  to                  my mind,
         to my physique,          and to my thoughts,
                         so blame me
not           for these          perspectives,
     blame me not for the truth,
                  blame me not for these results,
   and blame me                       not for being me.